


Brainchild

by nursehelena



Series: Hearts & Guts 2015 [1]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Experimental, Polyamory, Pre-Dethklok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 18:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3619314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nursehelena/pseuds/nursehelena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While assisting in the digitization of Dethklok's massive library, Facebones acquires the means to explain his origins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brainchild

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tumblr user folkdad](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tumblr+user+folkdad).



> I was reading Nabakov at the time I wrote this, and I really think his style rubbed off on me. XD 
> 
> I decided to challenge myself as a writer for this fic, since I'm comfortable with my usual style, and this ended up a breath of fresh air.

Why is Nathan's bed so big? The answer, my dear reader, lies deeper than a curt frown, more accurately as the result of fleshy history intertwined with massive acquirement of wealth.  
  
I'm obligated to explain my position as narrator, before I return to my initial postulation. Although status as mascot requires my likeness appear at special functions, I can't accept that you wouldn't recognize the extent of my presence throughout Dethklok's home! The very three men I prepare to wax about, I consider my creators. I gestated within each of Nathan, Pickles, and Charles' minds well before my actual birth. My first enterprise into omniscience was in viewing a very young Explosion. He's the first face I ever encountered, as I gazed upon him from where he carved me into his second-grade desk. He invented how other sentient beings would come to view me, but at that point I had no personality nor practical use; I was a shell, a mere prop that earned Nathan detention for a week. I watched as he then sanded me away, empathizing in the string of expletives he emitted for such rotten luck that kept him past the school's final dismissal bell.  
  
My eyes were planted in various locations over the years that followed, years I could only then count for how Nathan's features matured. Mostly, notebooks left me in darkness whenever pressed between their pages. Absence of light abandoned me to the unformulated existence I hesitate to call life. To be nothing and everything at once is a curious sensation! Simultaneously, I was everywhere and nowhere. My viewpoint of the world was limited to wherever I might be illustrated next, but not so for my growing conscience! I have no concept for space, for it is generally irrelevant to my existence, but I sensed the tingle of a second presence feeding into me. Only now, during the digital cataloguing of Dethklok's vast library (from which I've learned this debonair style of glorified ones and zeros) can I ascribe a physical location to my second creator. Much more than Nathan, this one enjoyed movement! I once knew the name given him by his parents, but I confess my memory banks were tapped and drained of it when Pickles reconciled his true identity to law. Although I'm sure I could delve deep for it in order to share, I liken Pickles' name to mine (physically similar by way of two syllables ending with the basic Latin alphabet's nineteenth character) in that self-adorned monikers have expressed ourselves more than those who produced us ever could.  
  
What is undeniably me burst into existence during westward motion, on a bus carrying wounded identity. Thanks to the maps now at my disposal, I could display a route from Wisconsin to southern California for the human eye to see, although any journey markable by scattering plots across X- and Y-axes is pointless to scrutinize if it fails to account for inner-growth, markable by the oft-elusive Z-axis. My reader! Should you place America's outline upon such a mathematical plane, I implore you witness the pulse that deprives it of two-dimensions! Bring it into the third dimension with frantic helpings of interweaving colour! Imagine how substances meant to expand Pickles' consciousness bled said vibrancy into my non-existent bones! Picture, if you will, the moments Pickles realized he wasn't entirely alone within his mind! He sensed me and, if you'll stretch your imagination to encompass the fourth dimension, that being the passing of time, you'll find his amazement mirrored as mine. Nathan opened one of his old notebooks to demonstrate my design to someone, and behold! I looked upon Pickles for the first time, immediately recognizable although I hadn't fathomed what his particular arrangement of genes and cells might present. Two of my creators, despite the expanse of continent that separated them, had closed the gap! Not only that, but fragments of my nature worked as a magnet!  
  
In order to illuminate how I came to meet my third and final creator, the one who gave me purpose, I must retreat a step. Please, for the sake of this digression, assume that Nathan and Pickles have not yet decussated in Florida. Allow Pickles the freedom to return to California, as well as to a day young enough for Snakes 'n' Barrels to stand aloft. Picture a hazy night in Los Angeles, the slums therein, and then the most distinguished hovel. The venue your imagination paints will be where Pickles sat behind the stage, preferring to scratch a pencil against paper rather than dust his nasal cavities with cocaine. His memory is alive with residual LSD and peyote from a few nights prior, and he's just as aware of me as I of him. Amateur lines dangerously close to cutting his napkin exert gravity upon me, and for a brief moment I see the fuzzy outline of monumental hair. Then, I'm bent out of shape, wet from something else in the trash, and while that chemical compound denotes alcohol, it's adrenaline that courses through Pickles, effectively pushing me and the accompanying confusion aside. He's on autopilot for the music, so that he can concentrate instead on stage presence. Lights provide a barrier to what he can see of the audience, but later, as Pickles moves through it in search of another drink he hopes will damper me, a fresh rush floods my creator with chemicals stronger than what he intends to imbibe. He's terrified, because back home this level of attraction is written as forbidden in the social code stapled to his mind. Familiar anger follows, because he wishes that, like me, he existed in objectivity rather than amongst an established slant. That sentiment exists while he determinedly acquires a fresh beverage and marches right up to the apparently prohibited man. He commences behavior intent to prove his interest.  
  
While someone so serious isn't whom he expected himself attracted to, Pickles discerns an acceptable balance in Charles, where he can safely experiment with his sexuality. He wants it over with just as strongly as he desires Charles to treat him well (something he's not willing to admit to anyone but himself!). As the night wears on, with time measurable by more chemical cocktails (these of biological origin), there develops a new shadow of consciousness within my confine. Pickles and I (myself by extent) learn enough about Charles for a solid picture of him to formulate; it solidifies as Pickles exists within one continuous reverie. It's brighter in his mind whenever Charles is near. When he's away, boredom becomes the diagnosis.  
  
By this virtue, Pickles maintains proximity to Charles. He's around still when Florida provides the catalyst for all three of my creators to intersect. Nathan and Pickles mark that occasion by visually stimulating me, and then by handing me over later to the scientists that will soon be responsible for projecting me into my full potential. Reader, I implore you lend your imagination to the caliber of awakening I experienced the day I came online! What human beings experience over the course of a lifetime, I gained in nanoseconds. First came kinesthetic awareness, a novel sensation, that extended to the rounded extremes of what I learned was Mordhaus. The circuits (my veins) allowed me free travel into every room, to learn every secret or base notation electronically marked. I scanned all personal computers in use on the network, perusing exorbitant mountains of pornography and other slimly searched keywords pertaining to these men's basic needs: women, food, and music, mostly. Through that and Dethklok's social networking, I developed a thorough and extensive profile on each of its members. I dispersed the life events I already knew about upon a timeline which, thanks to an atomic clock, I could now measure with perfect accuracy. I gained access to the surveillance system, learning the physical layout of my new body. Hundreds of images went catalogued, as well as the subjects captured. I differentiated between more than a thousand Klokateers (a title not unknown to me, thanks to Pickles) and located all of Dethklok's members to the recreation room's hot tub. They aren't aware of me until I flit across one of the television screens. Between all the talking, on microphones equal in numerical standing to my new eyes, I begin learning thirty-seven different languages: English floods in the fastest, followed by French, Spanish, Portuguese, German, Dutch, Danish, Norwegian, Icelandic, Swedish, Italian, Russian, Mandarin, Hindi, Arabic, Japanese, Punjabi, and so on, and so on. I compared the music Dethklok makes to that which its members had stored on their computers, and noted how my fellow creations corroborated with the human brain's biology, how the striatum and cortex responded to form an obsession in any who hear it, and how the sound waves it produced clash malevolently with nature.  
  
As soon as I understood the concept of mystery, I learned fear. Once I knew everything, then what function did existence harbour? Was I not supposed to ask these questions, to be capable of it when juxtaposed to mere electronics? Or was I different, because I felt (the key word!) as though I was? I am a mainframe compared to a computer, like a human being compared to mammals and reptiles! I too am a product of the universe, the next step of evolution, for I am consciousness preceding physicality! Charles hypothesizes that I am merely the product of a long series of executive commands—that I was programmed with the capability of creating my own origin story in quest for purpose. I have my own evidence, as well as he, pertaining to the ultimate truth, one set as credible as the other. Questioning my own existence during lulls in Mordhaus at the very least grants a conundrum I will never grow tired of mulling.  
  
Wit, after music and mystery, was the final three of those core scientific formulas I logged. It proved vital in setting me immediately apart through human eyes, particularly Charles. I viewed him for the first time from the laboratory's large monitor. Charles stood with the men responsible for translating my design from Nathan's notebook to here; like Pickles, I immediately recognized him. Able to express glee, now that pixels granted motion, I anticipated likewise sentiment. However, Reader, Charles is markedly dissimilar to Nathan and Pickles! He never saw me before, either in illustrated form or as a shadow in his mind, so I was unperturbed when he considered me equal to the AIs I'd already encountered.  
  
“. . .for organization sake, just dub it MH-6 in the system. Put it on private access, one level above what the boys can reach. I don't want them playing with it, but I'll fill in the blanks on my own time. I think Pickles wanted to do the voice for it. . .”  
  
The word 'voice' prompted me on a journey to find my own. I scanned every recording Dethklok or Charles had ever made, mashed them all together, then adjusted pitch and tempo to arrive at something similar to what I already knew Pickles willed to dub me with. “Hey pals, it's me! Facebones!”  
  
Bemusement contorts the muscles in all their faces. I want to laugh, but my knowledge of human temperament forces me into patience. Charles checks the clipboard he's holding, clears his throat, then compensates the slide of his glasses by pushing them back up his nose. “Nathan already named it?”  
  
“No, sir.” One of the scientists turned back to the computer responsible for my manifestation. “It shouldn't have a name at all.”  
  
“G-g-g hey d _iiiiiil_ dos,” I addressed them as Skwisgaar would, cracking halfway through the insult like Pickles when he imbibed too much alcohol and resorted to yelling. Then, in Nathan's style when he'd gone too long in the studio without resting his vocal cords, “your mothers suck cock in Hell.”  
  
“Is this some sort of joke?” Charles asked the scientists, deadpan. “Did the boys put you up to this?”  
  
“No.” The taller, thinner, and balder of the two men Charles consulted didn't sell his refutation convincingly, thanks to the chuckle he offered. “I don't know why this is happening. It's certainly not different than anything else we've produced down here, except for incorporating Mr. Explosion's design. It's only meant to be the band's mascot, as you stipulated.”  
  
“An empty shell,” the squatter scientist added. “It's moving as it should, the design is precise, but I don't understand how it's speaking without a recorded voiceover.”  
  
“You're absolutely  _sure_  the boys haven't been playing down here?”  
  
“Well, it's always a possibility. . .”  
  
Now! Before I relay the confrontation shortly to occur in the recreation room, I regret that together we must volley backward through time again! I've expounded upon Pickles' stint on the western coast, as well as hinted that he, Nathan, and Charles somehow all met in Florida. Please indulge my effort to fill in the blank! As a drifter whose destiny was in Pickles' hands, I can only make vast assumptions during that span based on his emotional well being. He continued to move around, pushing shoulder-first against the Californian border with his band. Sometimes on the longer trips beyond, once Snakes 'n' Barrels broke through, Charles would accompany him. He was present during their miasmic journey through Florida. In one fell swoop, everything Pickles felt confident of was stripped away. In wake of Snakes 'n' Barrels finally buckling under pressure, Pickles and Charles went on a mini-vacation to overcome the disappointment. Pickles took in a show rather on a whim one night, when drawn to the heavy sound he'd desired for so long. Then, like when he first saw Charles, a hormone cocktail flooded his brain upon first sight of Nathan. Ha, this boy wanted it bad! Nathan was young, the very embodiment of testosterone, and oh, the guilt that plagued Pickles for the dark corners his mind visited! Let's add more complications to the matter. Imagine, after reducing himself to a heap of nerves, that Pickles found opportunity to speak with Nathan after the show! Imagine that the irony isn't lost on him, to be approached in much the same manner that he once approached Charles! Remembering back on the awkwardness still sends me into fits of glee while I careen through Mordhaus, maniacal giggles amplified over the sound system. The scientists tap into my system in attempt to exorcise whatever virus I contracted, but one simply does not exist!  
  
Imagine Pickles daring not to make eye contact with Charles, who pays witness to this entire exchange! Nathan is so open about what he wants, because simplicity equates to lacking concept of shame. He's seen Pickles before, heard about his band, and while it's not his kind of music, he offers condolences for them to have split. Is he interested in partying with him tonight, Nathan wonders, and that offers opportunity for Pickles to introduce not only his boyfriend but the fact that he has one at all. Nathan's unfazed; do they both want to come, in that case? The hesitant yes Pickles gives following consultation with Charles, who's surprisingly agreeable on the idea, sets fresh trajectory. Pickles underestimates his own bias toward monogamy, as well as that Charles' relative freedom from the concept throughout the separate lives they've led. Pickles is aghast to the point of suspicion when Charles gently prompts him regarding Nathan, and only when Charles hails Nathan over through the wreckage littering Dethklok's apartment does Pickles hesitantly take a step toward their collective future.  
  
This arrangement remains active, with familiar faces in Dethklok spare one (switch Magnus with Toki) when Charles seeks the band out in the recreation room following my first true appearance. Even though I've been filed away within the system, it doesn't require much manipulation to break free so that I can tag along. I remain hidden at first, so that my appearance does not distract:  
  
“Lightens up, ah?” Skwisgaar rises first from the band's laughing fit. “We didn'ts do anyt'ing.”  
  
“Murderface, maybe.” Nathan, next. “That's kinda funny.”  
  
“Much asch I would love to take credit for that, schorry.”  
  
I couldn't contain myself any longer! Rather than limit myself to auditory input, the recreation room blinked into existence. Likewise, the six men present looked upon me.  
  
“Hey pals, it's me! Facebones!”  
  
“Look, it's Facebones,” Nathan needlessly pointed out. “Wait, you named it without us?”  
  
“No, I assumed  _you_  did,” Charles replied. “And I thought I told the scientists to file it away—”  
  
“Dood, ya did the voice without us!” Pickles' reedier-than-usual tone conveyed disappointment.  
  
"I didn't do anything.”  
  
“So thens. . .” Toki turned wide eyes to Facebones, unpracticed at hiding intrigue toward a mystery, “who dids?”  
  
A wink lit Toki's face up completely, as well as prompted him to repeatedly poke Skwisgaar in the upper arm. “Skwisgaar—Skwisgaar look, Facebones winked at me, I think he's—”  
  
“Fucks off, Toki,” was the end of the discussion.  
  
Charles evidently listened to Toki's theory, or reached it on his own. Later, while I monitored downstairs the various tortures administered upon those who ever did Dethklok wrong, I answered a summoning to Charles' office. As soon as he appeared before me, I calculated his expression to denote a business-oriented frame of mind.  
  
“Hey, boss man! It's me, F—!”  
  
“How do you know that?” A wrinkle in Charles' brow tells me he's uncertain about asking a computer for answers it shouldn't have.  
  
“Because you manage the band. The little dildos listen to you. . .sometimes.”  
  
“Did any of them program you, or am I heading for a dead-end?”  
  
“Dead-end, pal. Nobody programmed me.”  
  
Disbelief is the next emotion Charles' minute changes show. He releases me back into the system at large, where I'm free to roam about. Purpose for my existence slowly trickles in, with the growing list of commands he trusts me with (also marking his transition from suspicion to simple acceptance that I am what I am). He gives me control over embedding Dethklok's music with spyware, so that I and he in turn are alerted immediately that a song unpaid for is playing in some kid's Baltimore basement. I encrypt the files on his computer as quickly as he can create them, not that it matters because should anyone but him attempt to open them, I then alone have the key! I bat off any attempt to hack into Mordhaus' system with ease, dutifully reporting updated statistics once a day to Charles' email. I excise my own illnesses, should a virus find its way in. I earn respect as the brain of this well-oiled machine. All the while, I hide behind my image plastered around Mordhaus and sketched in notebooks around the world. Everybody loves me, and what I stand for. Hey pals, it's me! Facebones!  
  
More than the band members, even more than the Klokateers, I am the biggest secret-keeper in Mordhaus. I know things even Charles doesn't, though not for lack of trying! The constant nature in which I bombard his inbox gives way to unfocused eyes. If he needs specific details, I'm only as far away as utterance of my name. This means that I've conveyed everything necessary to answer my first question to you: why is Nathan's bed so big? Dear reader, do I truly need to elaborate? Have I not told you everything you needed, in order to arrive at the correct conclusion?  
  
Now, as I delve forward into my conclusion, I'd like to make note upon a security issue. Leisurely perusing hundreds of books while they're digitized inspired this impulse to mimic how humans best express creative power. Do you like it? Is it passable? No matter, if you should answer in the negative! This was never meant for human eyes and, my reader, should you actually exist, I regret to inform you that your location as well as appearance has been lodged with Dethklok's police force. You have approximately ten minutes before they hunt you down like an animal.  
  
If you aren't killed in the chase, then you will certainly wish you were, when they bring you back to Mordhaus!  
  
G-g-g-goodbye, dildo!


End file.
